


Call The Autumn Time a Fool

by au_sein_et_sans



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ALSO important: there is MINOR character death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mostly Fluff, it's so minor it's an oc, like i wouldn't not read this because of it, like really really minor - Freeform, mad minor, ok it's like pretty straight if it wasn't so fuckin gay, please, straight up the smallest angst ever i sweart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/au_sein_et_sans/pseuds/au_sein_et_sans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire and Enjolras are one another's best friend and that will never change, no matter what. A slow-burn, best friends fic that follows the two boys through their lives in the sleepy town of Eureka, Kansas. </p><p>writing summaries is so hard m y god</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

> hey remember when people used to write exr fanfiction well........................i'm still here!!! i never got the memo apparently
> 
> hope you guys like it anyway
> 
> (also i don't own any of the characters i'm writing about, their father is victor hugo who is not me)

Grantaire was born first, by 12 days, in the Eureka County Hospital on August 11th, 1981. Enjolras was born on August 23rd, 1981, in the Romier Private Hospital and Clinic, fourteen miles away from his home town, because his father swore up and down that was the safest, most reliable place to be treated. Enjolras’s mother knew it was clean, and quiet but she had nothing to compare it to. She had never given birth before, and would never do it again.

Grantaire’s parents brought him back home to a warm, modest house on a sleepy cul-de-sac called Peach Street. He had a lot of neighbors on all sides because they lived at the very end of the street. One next door neighbor had thriving rosebushes in their front yard, so every year during the summer the street would reek of it’s sweet scent. There were a lot of kids that lived nearby, and Grantaire’s sister, Eponine, was always keen to introduce the both of them into whatever circle of friends she chose. Their direct next door house, not the one with the roses, who was on the other, lived a boy named Montparnasse who Eponine did everything with. And for the very first few years of his life, Grantaire did everything with Eponine.

Enjolras lived in a big, white house on the middle of a street named Willow Lane, because of the excess of the type of tree that grew around there. Enjolras had his very own willow tree in his backyard, and for the first few years of _his_ life, he would look out the window and stare at the willow tree that was so close to his window he felt sometimes like he could just reach out and touch it. Enjolras’s father once found him staring wistfully out the window, and laying a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder said, “someday I’ll build you a treehouse on that willow tree.” And Enjolras believed him, wholeheartedly.

 

Grantaire went to Eureka County Preschool, and Enjolras went to Our Lady of Lourdes Preschool, which was held in a building attached to the main church. One year into preschool for both boys, Grantaire transferred to Our Lady of Lourdes Preschool when Montparnasse got them both expelled for putting peanuts in a batch of cookies labelled “No Peanuts” and making Jimmy Finkelman go into anaphylactic shock. (Even though Montparnasse was a good six years older than him, and Grantaire didn’t have the slightest clue what he was doing, he was still exiled in disgrace).

On Grantaire’s first day of preschool, he was led through the door by a tall, kind woman with soft eyes who introduced herself as Fantine and told him he could play wherever he liked. Grantaire surveyed the room. He saw the kids playing with trains on the carpet, and the kids with their hands covered in paint splattering it all over their easels in a way that didn’t interest him, and the kids banging on drums and shaking maracas noisily and rhythmlessly. None of whom he knew.

Finally, his gaze alighted on a boy with a full head of goldie curls sitting by himself, and wordlessly stacking blocks one on top of the other. Grantaire didn’t know at all why he walked over to him, and sat down, and let the kid stare him over for five minutes before continuing to do his thing.

“What are you doing?” He finally asked.

Enjolras looked up at him and squinted. He didn’t recognize Grantaire at all, and he didn’t like talking to strangers. “S’nothing,” he mumbled.

“Why are you putting them like that?” Grantaire inquired, again.

“Dunno,” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders, nonplussed.

“Why don’t you make it bigger at the bottom?” Grantaire gestured to his flimsy foundation. “They’re gonna fall down if you keep going that high.”

Enjolras jut his pointy chin out. “Nuh-uh,” he objected.

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Only - yeah, they are.” He said, matter-of-factly. He used the voice that Eponine used on him whenever she clearly knew better.

Enjolras shook his head, his goldie curls fluttering about his face. “I betcha I can put these all on there, and they won’t fall down.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, baffled by his new playmate’s naïvety. _Easiest ten bucks I ever made_ , he would’ve been thinking, if he hadn’t been four.

And then Enjolras did something miraculous. It took him the entire rest of the morning session of the day, but one by one, he meticulously stacked the blocks, each one directly on top of the other. It was a foot tall, then two feet, then three and a half feet. Enjolras had to stand on a chair to place the last two blocks. By the end of the half an hour, Grantaire was rooting for him, the boy who still had yet to have a name.

When finally the last block was placed, Grantaire threw his hands in the air, and gave a loud hoot of victory. Enjolras looked so taken aback by the sudden exclamation that almost fell off of his chair. Fantine bid him down, but his sheepishness lasted hardly a minute as he was swept back into Grantaire’s contagious celebration. Grantaire danced around the tall, block tower, and Enjolras giggled softly to himself.

Enjolras had truly never experienced a reaction like this to anything he’d ever done, not ever. Come to think of it, Enjolras never had anyone want to play with him over all of the other kids before. He didn’t know what it was, but a feeling of warmth spread through his stomach as Grantaire introduced himself with a shake of his hand like they’d both seen their parents do. He hadn’t known what it meant then and never thought about it again, but had Enjolras been equipped with a better vocabulary he would’ve recognized the sensation as gratitude.

To put it plainly, Grantaire liked Enjolras’s hair. Everyone in his family had dark hair, except for his grandmaman who had soft, wispy white hair that looked just as bright as Enjolras’s but like it could fall out any minute. Enjolras’s hair looked healthy. Grantaire also liked the games that Enjolras played and the things he could think of. Grantaire did not like Montparnasse’s games, and at times he even found them scary. He was not repentant when he fell out of contact with the friends he had made before he switched schools. For the rest of his life, Grantaire predicted that Enjolras would be the only friend he needed.

 

Eponine’s favorite memory of Enjolras and Grantaire was during a block party on Peach Street in the second grade. Grantaire had cake all over his face and ran around whooping and hollering, and Enjolras basically followed him through the party apologizing to people on behalf of his friend as he went.

 

Enjolras’s mother’s favorite memory of the two of them was in the fourth grade when Grantaire was sleeping over and Enjolras’s mother had forced him to take a bath, and Grantaire elected to keep him company. When she came back to check on them, Grantaire had poured the entire contents of Enjolras’s mother’s expensive bubble bath into the bathtub and Enjolras was frothing up a storm. Bubbles overflowed from all sides of the tub, onto the newly renovated tile. He had styled the bubbles into a beehive on the top of his head, and a great thick beard covering the bottom half of his face. He would disappear for a few moments at a time and then thrust his hands in the air, sending a new armful of bubbles into the air. Grantaire was laughing so hard, tears were streaking down his face.

Enjolras’s mother loved the moment, but never let Enjolras bathe when Grantaire came over to visit again.

 

Enjolras’s favorite memory of Grantaire at that age was when, that same year as Bubblebathgate, Grantaire’s father took the two of them to Kansas City to see the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Additionally, Enjolras couldn’t remember a time when he so much wanted to pull his brains out through his ears. Enjolras could hardly see the appeal. He liked art in general. He thought the cartoons in the Sunday paper was some of the best art he had ever seen. Bazooka Joe gum wrappers, too. But three statues strewn about seemingly randomly in a room did not interest him even a little.

What did interest him was the expression of awe and excitement on Grantaire’s face as he memorized every inch, every line, every detail of everything he saw. Everything about him seemed to scream that he was so alive, so content, so full. He was fascinated. And Enjolras was fascinated by him. For the first time ever in his life up to that point, and almost for the rest of his life following, Enjolras truly understood any purpose he might find in creating art.

If someone could find some medium, whether it be through painting, or photography, or shaping things from clay, to accurately immortalize the expression of fanciful adoration on Grantaire’s face that afternoon… Enjolras would understand the point of that. Hell, he might even pay to see it.

 

On the morning of their graduation from middle school, Grantaire slapped the frontmost part Enjolras’s graduation cap down on his head, and the cloth coated cardboard hit his friend’s nose with a small _thwap._ Enjolras lunged at his friend, tackling him to the ground, and wrestled Grantaire’s cap off of his head and thrust it across his front yard, so far that it landed silently by the side of the house. Enjolras laughed now, as Grantaire had been laughing earlier, and although Grantaire struggled to buck his friend off of him, his expression was not completely without mirth.

Suddenly, Enjolras’s mother came flying out of the front door. “Boys!” She exclaimed, hands fluttering about her face as she tried in vain to break up the pandemonium. “Those are your nice graduation clothes, Enjolras! You’re borrowing them from Mathias! Ohh, if your Aunt Libby sees even a _spot_ of dirt on that vest, Enjolras, I will _never_ hear the end of it. Do you understand me, young man? Hey! Hey! Grantai - uch!” She threw her hands up in despair.

Once Enjolras had wrestled Grantaire onto the ground before him, he finally stood up. Turns out, he had gotten quite a bit more than just a spot of dirt on the vest. In fact, the entire ensemble was not only disheveled, but seemingly beyond repair.

As Grantaire hoisted himself back up to standing, to go and search for his graduation cap somewhere in Enjolras’s backyard, Enjolras’s mother flurried around her son, fussing with his hair. He bat away each of her advances, and finally when she licked her finger and made a move to go towards his face, Enjolras bade wildly for his father, who might’ve been the only one who could talk sense into her.

His father appeared in the doorway just as Grantaire re-rounded the corner, graduation cap in hand, a toothy grin on his face, and a great streak of dirt down the side of his cheek that Enjolras’s father found hilarious. He made his wife promise not to fix anything as he grabbed his camera from where he had left it in the dining room, and took a picture of the three of them.

Grantaire, dirt-covered but still grinning like a lunatic. Enjolras, rumpled and practically beaming rays of light at Grantaire. And Enjolras’s mother, completely unimpressed by the entire situation, hands on her hips, and glaring at the camera in her husband’s hands.

Enjolras’s father thought the situation was quite a spectacle, and liked to bring it up whenever possible. Enjolras’s mother thought it was shameful (and she never did hear the end of it from her sister) and shot her husband down whenever he looked like he was about to bring it up. Enjolras didn’t see the picture for many years, and he didn’t know why, until Grantaire later told him that he’d requested the picture directly from Enjolras’s father, and had since been in his possession.

 

 

That summer, after their successful graduation from the fifth grade, Enjolras’s family went on their last extravagant vacation all together, to Greece. Enjolras didn’t speak Greek, and the days took eternities to finish. It was very beautiful there, but he had no concept of beauty, only of stimulation, and especially a lack thereof. He missed Grantaire, painfully, and though his mother suggested writing, Enjolras never got around to it.

When he came home, however, he found that Grantaire had made a new friend. His name was Bahorel, and he was one of the boys Grantaire had known as a really small child. They had become thick as thieves while Enjolras was away, and on first meeting the boy, Enjolras decided that he absolutely did not like him. Bahorel was loud, and coarse; all of the worst things about Grantaire that Enjolras overlooked, and none of the good.

Enjolras was so angry at Bahorel, and so angry at Grantaire that he simply drove himself out of his mind. He felt disposable, and more importantly, already disposed. Before Grantaire could contest this, however, Enjolras disposed of _him_.

Enjolras would not talk to Grantaire for an entire year.

 

* * *

 

They were both in their second year of middle school, when Enjolras’s father had his first heart attack.

Enjolras’s father hadn’t been in the best shape of his life, having succumbed to smoking as a teenager, and continued ever since. His eating habits were atrocious, and he hadn’t gotten exercise in thirty years. For all intents and purposes, he was a perfect candidate.

Unfortunately, no matter how obvious the match between Enjolras’s father and heart failure seemed to be, no one in the family was very well equipped to deal with it. Enjolras, after all, was only a boy, still. He hardly understood what was going on when his father cried out in pain one night during dinner. He claimed he was having pain in his shoulder and hollered at Enjolras to fetch his mother. Enjolras went upstairs to find his mother asleep on their king-sized bed.

Her room smelt strongly, like nail polish remover, or how Kenny the mechanic’s breath smelled sometimes.

Enjolras closed the door, and flew back down the stairs to find his father, chest heaving sporadically, convulsing very slightly on the floor.

Enjolras had to dial the ambulance himself.

Traumatic didn’t even begin to describe that night. He watched his father not only get carried on a stretcher and whisked away from his grasp, but there was no way to follow him. He didn’t even know where his father was going. His mother couldn’t drive him, she wasn’t even conscious.

He felt tears spring to his eyes when he realized there would be no one there to tell the ambulance driver to go to the Romier Private Hospital and Clinic, because it was the safest, most reliable place to be treated. Enjolras sat down on his front steps, hugged his legs into his chest, and rocked back and forth, ache sweeping through his body, blurring his ability to think, his knack of rationalizing.

Enjolras closed the front door but didn’t lock it before he started walking. The night was cold, but he could barely tell. He was shaking because he was sobbing, or maybe he was shaking because he was shivering. It didn’t matter. Enjolras kept walking, anyway. He walked the opposite direction that the ambulance had sped off into. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t quite sure of the route he was taking.

Until he realized that he was following the path that he’d bike every day in the third grade.

A right on Forrest Road, then a left onto Elmwood Terrace. Continue for two blocks until the street curves to the right then duck into Mr. McPherson’s driveway. Go out his back gate, walk down the cobblestone path in the Bentleys’ backyard until you’re back out onto the sidewalk. And you’re on Peach Street.

Enjolras knocked on the door, surprised his frozen knuckles didn’t crack in half by the slight pressure. The lights were on inside Grantaire’s house, and they looked so inviting. He imagined a scenario in which Grantaire saw it was him, and the soothing, yellow lamp that threw shadows across the sidewalk was switched out, suddenly, harshly.

But, sure enough, the door opened. It was Eponine, not Grantaire, which probably explained it. Enjolras didn’t say anything, just hugged his hands in tighter to himself. If Eponine was surprised to see him there, or if she wondered why he hadn’t been around for the last year, she didn’t show it at all. Instead, she stepped back letting him inside.

“Grantaire’s upstairs,” she informed him. When he made no move to climb the stairs, she stared at him for a second, but accepted this without explanation as well. “Grantaire!” She hollered so loud Enjolras could practically feel it in his ribs.

“What!?” Grantaire hollered back down.

Enjolras felt gravitationally pulled towards the voice. It was so familiar. His entire body only ached more.

“Enjolras is here for you!” She called back.

This received no response. After a few moments, she shrugged her shoulders, but shut the door with Enjolras on her side of it, and retreated back into the living room from whence she had came, to continue watching TV. Enjolras was in a bad way. He felt terribly out of sorts, just standing there like an idiot, arms wrapped around himself even though the cold had been locked out behind him.

And then, Grantaire’s socks appeared at the top of the staircase. Then came his legs as he stepped down, and his torso, and his arms trailing behind him on the bannister, and then the face Enjolras hadn’t even realized he had missed so intensely.

Grantaire reached the bottom of the stairs, and took a few steps forward. He seemed timid, fumbling, and uncomfortable, and Enjolras couldn’t believe even for a second that he had let himself fall out of communication for so long. But he didn’t think of that. He couldn’t.

He could hardly think of anything at all, except for what he wanted to do more than anything in the world.

Enjolras took approximately three and a half steps in Grantaire’s direction until they were standing toe to toe, and then, as if his entire ability to go on had been sucked from his chest in the span of half a second, Enjolras collapsed into Grantaire’s chest, wrapping his arms dangerously tight around Grantaire’s neck. He held fast, and squeezed his eyes shut. He had no use for words in this moment, he only needed one bodily reaction.

And he got it. In no more than two seconds, Grantaire’s arms reacted, and wrapped around Enjolras’s back, so solid and comforting Enjolras could cry.

And Enjolras did cry. And _cried_.

For about two hours all Enjolras did was blubber like a baby. He didn’t communicate anything at all, and actually had to translate everything he had said that night back to Grantaire in the morning.

Grantaire, who he hadn’t spoken to in over a year, and who had still let him sleep in his bed. Grantaire, who hadn’t protested or confronted Enjolras at all when he shut him out, and had still wrapped his arms so tightly around Enjolras’s torso he could feel the breath get chased from his chest in a _whoosh_. Grantaire, who, when in the morning Enjolras tried to apologize, made him two pancakes and a sunny side-up egg, and told him that his mother had volunteered to drive Enjolras and his mother, both, to the hospital at their earliest convenience.

And just like that, it was like they hadn’t missed a day.

 

There was an old creek close to Our Lady of Lourdes that Enjolras and Grantaire discovered in their last year of middle school. Enjolras’s mother had come home from a rehabilitation center the month before, and Enjolras’s father was finally on better footing with his physical health. And, almost just as importantly, Enjolras and Grantaire were friends again. They had talked about _it_ maybe once, before Enjolras had grown embarrassed and Grantaire had grown bored of being serious, and they decided that a promise that neither of them would freeze out the other would be just as good. And it was; neither of them did.

It was early spring, so the creek wasn’t as cold as it could be, but it was still pretty damn cold. Grantaire had his jeans rolled up to his knees, and was trying to manage a miraculous balancing act on the mossy stones in the brook when Enjolras sent a shimmering wave of chilly water down Grantaire’s left side. The shock of the sudden bombardment caused Grantaire to miss his footing, and he fell, side first, onto the hard stones on the bottom of the river.

“No!”

At first he yelped, then groaned, an embarrassing guttural sound, but he was all of a sudden up to his neck in the coldest water of his life, and every inch of his situation felt unreal. At least the natural temperature of the spring helped alleviate any immediate pain from the bruising no doubt winding its way up his spine.

“No, no! Grantaire!”

Enjolras was suddenly rushing over, like running full speed over slippery, slimy rocks was the most natural thing in the world. He stopped just short of Grantaire’s face, and doubled over staring at him, reaching out a hand and just nudging him here and there, no doubt to check if he was still alive.

“Grantaire? Hello? Oh my god. Grantaire, I’m so sorry. Hello?”

Grantaire was alive. Unfortunately.

He moaned, again, as if it wasn’t obvious that Enjolras had been the cause of his anguish.

Enjolras’s expression immediately made him forget it. The despair so clearly etched onto his dear friend’s face might’ve been funnier if it hadn’t broken Grantaire’s heart in two. Enjolras wordlessly grappled with Grantaire’s sides, making a very valiant attempt at rising him out of the water, but failing miserably.

“En - Enjolras - Enj!” Grantaire protested, in between Enjolras’s great attempts to lug him like a sack of potatoes. “Cut it out, you’re gonna break a rib.”

“Of my own?” He asked, breathlessly, as if he had been the one that had fallen in.

“Yes, of your own, you idiot,” Grantaire wheezed out a laugh, still attempting to breath through his lungs. “You’ve already broken mine, so. Check.”

Enjolras withdrew his hands with a terrible grimace on his face. “Have I really?” He asked, his voice a strained whisper.

Grantaire just shook his head, concerned with finding the strength in his own arms to lift himself out of the water. He felt about a million pounds heavier than normal, what with the added water weight and the fact that all of the bones in his body had crumbled to dust, and were sitting right in his butt like a Beanie Baby.

Enjolras tried, feebly, to help him up, but instead was just put a hand here or there at random intervals, completely useless, but with good intentions.

No thanks to Enjolras, Grantaire withdrew himself from the water and threw himself down onto the bank of grass beside it. He sighed in relief that he’d made it out of that life threatening situation alive.

 _No, not quite_ , he thought to himself, as he realized he would still have to talk Enjolras into realizing that it was not his duty to injure himself in a similar way as penance. That was probably more life threatening than dashing his own brains across a rock.

“Enjolras, come here,” was how he started, tiredly. Enjolras was twisting his fingers grotesquely around themselves, pulling them back and forth, absentmindedly. A nervous habit, no doubt. “Enjolras,” he said, sternly now, “come here.”

Finally, Enjolras took a seat by Grantaire in the grass.

Grantaire closed his eyes, and just let the heat of the spring sun warm his face and poor, sopping clothes.

“I’m sorry, Grantaire, if I’d known, I’d-,” Enjolras was silenced by a wave of Grantaire’s hand. Enjolras really was silenced, which Grantaire found surprising, but maybe he was hell bent on not getting on his friend’s bad side. Like, ever again.

Grantaire peered at Enjolras through his half-closed eyes. Enjolras was looking back toward the river, ripping grass out of the ground slowly and tearing it up, without thinking. Grantaire watched Enjolras’s jaw tense and untense and tense again, as his mind worked the millions of invisible cogs that Grantaire could never be privy to.

Grantaire did not like it when his friend felt bad and ashamed, not at all.

But this, basked by the glow of the early afternoon sun, so calm, and quiet, and painfully earnest; this was a good look for him.

 

Grantaire’s worst fear at the time, he acutely remembered for years and years afterwards, was the fear of falling asleep on public transportation. He didn’t like letting his guard down in general, and that seemed like the absolute worst way to do it. Literally shutting your eyes and switching off your consciousness in front of a group of strangers, proving yourself completely defenseless. He just didn’t like it.

But one May, the summer between freshman year and sophomore, he and Enjolras took a train to the Nelson-Atkins Museum again, because Grantaire wanted to see an exhibition of Roy Simmons, an artist who had come back to his hometown for a showcase. His art was visceral and all immersive, and Grantaire couldn’t remember a more inspiring afternoon. By the end of the day, he was so exhausted Enjolras had to practically guide him back to the train.

Grantaire fell asleep on Enjolras’s shoulder, on the train. That was the first time he had ever allowed himself to do that.

If he was ever asked, which he never was, _why_ he allowed himself to let his guard down on the train that afternoon, he would swear that he didn’t. He didn’t feel defenseless at all. In fact, he had never felt safer.

 

In sophomore year was when Enjolras got his first girlfriend. Her name was Cosette, and she was sweet, caring, and beautiful. She was as every bit deserving of someone like Enjolras as he was of her. They were a perfect match.

In sophomore, Grantaire found _his_ lifelong partner; weed. They were a perfect match, too.

These two connections should’ve drawn Grantaire and Enjolras impossibly further from one another, but instead their dynamic never fumbled a step. Enjolras liked to think that at that point they had grown past their occasional bouts of miscommunication, and Grantaire believed that was because they were almost always brutally honest with one another. Lying by omission not included.

They made more friends, though, having built such a large circle of contacts around themselves that Grantaire and Enjolras weren’t necessarily in the center of it all anymore. Enjolras definitely was. Enjolras and Combeferre, a boy he had met in Student Council, and Courfeyrac, a kid Grantaire had introduced as having met in the principal’s office “by accident”. The three of them were as thick as thieves, with Grantaire hovering a little to the left.

This was comfortable for all of them, though, as Grantaire was never one to be in the center of attention if he could help it. He might’ve been, at one time, but now he was the perfect image of negative phototropism, growing away from the light. Enjolras grew directly toward the sun, or maybe he simply was the sun, Grantaire hadn’t fully completed the analogy. Either way, each boy was confident in the way he grew, which was better than nothing.

When everyone hung out in a group, and they had small group “meetings” where members of Student Council reached out to members of the student body, Enjolras and Grantaire seemed to hardly know one another. Grantaire was no stranger to the meetings, but he was hardly an active member, and when he was, all he would do was argue.

To an outsider, Enjolras and Grantaire seemed suited to be perfect enemies, but anyone who had exchanged a word with either of them knew it was only because Grantaire was the only one brave enough to call Enjolras out on his shit.

 

Musichetta’s favorite memory of the two of them was in sophomore year, in one of the meetings, when Enjolras brought up the prospect of reforming the school’s medical service. He had proposed they hire new nurses, or provide a single doctor with a more expansive knowledge of the trade, to possibly help more students.

To which Grantaire had replied, “this is a school, not a hospital.”

Enjolras had immediately grown indignant, swearing that a single doctor wouldn’t undermine the purpose of a school building, and about the many health dangers facing teenagers that could be avoided with proper medical treatment.

Grantaire had replied, “and what happens when the doctor is busy?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes and said, “then there’ll be a nurse, or an attendant or something.”

Grantaire argued that there could be as many as five children hurt at one time, so would you need five nurses? And, if you have five nurses and one doctor, how do you decide who gets the doctor? How do you decide whose pain is more important than another’s? And say you get another doctor, why don’t you get another five? And, while you’re at it, why don’t you remove all the desks and the chalkboards and the gymnasium? Why not just give everyone a heart monitor?

“This is a _school_ , fuckface, not a hospital,” Grantaire had concluded.

Enjolras didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. Instead, he walked to the desk in front of the one Grantaire was sitting in, and set himself down backwards in the chair, staring daggers into Grantaire’s smug face. Everyone watched this play out for a few moments, but when Enjolras made no other move, they resumed business as usual.

Grantaire was more than happy with his friend’s company and continued writing the essay that would be due the next period.

 

Jehan’s favorite memory of that same year was when he, Grantaire, and Joly were crowded around Jehan’s locker looking for a chemistry textbook he had to hand in to his teacher, or he’d be fined. Enjolras had come running down the hallway, late to his Gender Studies class, the one with the teacher that he desperately wanted to write him a college recommendation letter. He had been in such a hurry that he didn’t say ‘hi’ to any of them, or anyone else who greeted him, but when he passed the three of them, he reached out a hand and swatted at the back of Grantaire’s head.

Grantaire just rubbed his head with his hand, and made a private pouting face to the inside of the locker, but Jehan and Joly eyed each other, intrigued. Jehan liked to say that no matter how important Enjolras’s mission was, he would always have time for Grantaire.

Even if that was only enough time to _thwack_ him in the back of the head.

 

No matter how distant either of them might’ve grown in a group, when Grantaire and Enjolras were alone it was like they were back to the old days, when there were no other friends to distance them. Grantaire was Enjolras’s prime focus and the other way around. This happened often enough, Enjolras choosing Grantaire’s backyard, or Grantaire choosing Enjolras’s bedroom to do homework in. Or, Enjolras would do homework, and Grantaire would chatter senselessly until Enjolras finally stopped him.

Grantaire was a big fan of saying things, anything, and he especially liked it when Enjolras was the one listening to him, even if he wasn’t _really_ listening, and instead just nodding along, distractedly. In the few hours that Enjolras could allow him, Grantaire could pretty much say anything he liked.

This was why, on an afternoon in February that was particularly brisk, Grantaire spent five minutes fixing the heater in Enjolras’s bedroom, and then settled into Enjolras’s overstuffed bean bag chair and began to think aloud.

“…and she turned to me, y’know, with her eyes huge, like scary huge,” Grantaire licked his lips, “like freaky huge, and I swear to fuck she, like, growled at me. I don’t know. It was weird.” He peered over at Enjolras, who nodded, distractedly. “It was really weird. I was so freaked out, especially because it was like the middle of the night and she was staring at me like an animal.” He dropped his head back down onto the bean bag chair. “I could kind of see the appeal, though, I guess. Of, like, animalistic hunger. Hey,” Grantaire laughed, “I bet that’s why Cosette likes you so much.”

Enjolras’s eyes flicked up for a second. “What’s that?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Like, because, of the animal thing. The hungry, intense sort of vibe.”

Enjolras finally wasn’t pretending to listen anymore. “‘A hungry sort of vibe’?” He repeated, incredulously.

Grantaire lifted his head again, and rolled his eyes. “You seem so scandalized. It was just a…passing com-,” he was interrupted.

“What does that mean?” Enjolras prodded. “Hungry?”

“What does hungry mean?” Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed.

“In this context,” Enjolras added, hurriedly.

Grantaire tried to think for a moment, but now that he was being given actual attention, everything that was fueling his stream of consciousness sputtered out. “Dude, I don’t know. I was just saying shit.”

Enjolras looked at him for a second more, his eyes dangerously heavy, and then looked back down at his work.

With the weight of the world off of his shoulders, Grantaire felt like he could breathe again. And it only took him another minute before he started going.

“Okay, so maybe ‘hungry’ wasn’t the right word. Maybe that’s not why she likes you at all,” Grantaire muttered, lolling his head back and forth. “I mean, it’s probably because you’re smart. She seems like she’d be into the really brainy type. Which you are, I guess. It’s not all you are, though.” Grantaire was quiet for a second, thinking again. “Or it could just be because you’re, like, Greek god handsome.” Grantaire chuckled to himself. “Is that a normal thing to say to your best friend? Whatever, I’m sure I’ve told you before, it’s no secret. You’re a good looking guy. I mean, of course you are. Good going, Grantaire, these are some top notch observations.

“I guess she could like you for your looks, though I doubt she would. She doesn’t seem like the type. I’m sure she _appreciates_ your looks, at least. Like, it’s easy to buy a Klimt because of the romantic symbolism and all, but you’d also hang it in your grand dining room because it’s easy on the eyes. Like the look of the painting isn’t actively factored in, but it’s importance isn’t ruled out either. I’m sure that’s how Cosette thinks of you,” Grantaire laughed, “like a fucking…canvas painting. Like, she’s like ‘hi, guys, this is my boyfriend, Enjolras, he looks like a painting, don’t you think?’. I don’t know, maybe.

“That might be how I’d think of you, if I-,” Grantaire suddenly cut himself off. He was just silent for a moment, and the two of them listened to the clunking of the old radiator, until he glanced back up at Enjolras on his bed.

Enjolras was just staring at him.

 

The next day, after school, Grantaire found out Enjolras had broken up with Cosette without telling anybody why.

 

Sophomore year ended without any more real headlines, until August. It was the hottest summer that Eureka had seen in nearly forty years. On Saturday the temperature was ninety eight degrees, and it was rumored that on Sunday it would get up to 100. Enjolras spent his Saturday sprawled out on one of Courfeyrac’s poolside chairs for the majority of the day, with his skin feeling as though it were about to slide off of him. He took a long, cold shower that night, and went to sleep early, because the summer always made him want to sleep, and he woke up to the sound of wailing.

He leapt out of bed, and ran to his parent’s room, from where the sound was being generated, and found his mother curled over his father on the floor just beside their bed. His mother was tugging at his father’s clothes, and moaning unintelligible words at him, just crying and tugging and carrying on. Enjolras pried her off of him, and felt for a pulse. He found one, and immediately called an ambulance.

The hospital was too bright and too noisy and it was too damn hot. The small fan in the corner of the room did almost nothing to cool down the roomful of people waiting for their loved ones. Enjolras could feel sweat trickle down his back, and his leg bounced up and down, involuntarily. His mother sat glassy-eyed next to him.

She had been like that since he had gotten her in the car to drive her to the hospital. His father had already been rushed away into some back room, and now he was sitting with her waiting for the doctor, or the nurse, or anyone to tell them what room he was in so they could see him. With every passing moment that the doctor didn’t come, and that his mother didn’t say a word to him, his leg bounced harder and he sweat more, and he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and sink into the floor.

It was too bright in the room, too fucking bright.

There was a woman next to him holding a baby. He didn’t even want to imagine why she was there, or what she was even thinking.

Enjolras felt like he was going to be sick.

He checked his phone. It was four o’clock in the morning.

“I need to,” he rasped to his mother, who had no reaction, “go into the hallway for a second.”

She gave him no approval but she did not beg him to stay, so he rose and barely dragged himself into the hospital hallway before collapsing onto the ground. He didn’t realize he had dialed any number before he had the phone to his ear, and the soothing sound of the ringing vibrating through his body.

The phone rang for so long Enjolras thought he might have fallen asleep, but finally came a click.

“H…h’llo?” Came a gravelly voice.

Enjolras took the first breath in what felt like a millennium.

“Grantaire, he’s-,” Enjolras’s voice caught in his throat. “He’s in the hospital again.”

There was the sound of shuffling, as Enjolras imagined Grantaire was propping himself up in bed, or maybe he was falling back asleep. But then came his voice, “would you like me to come meet you?”

Enjolras said nothing.

“Because I can, Enjolras, I have my…my shoes right here, and I can borrow my dad’s car, he-,” Grantaire’s voice dissolved into mumbles, and although Enjolras wanted him there more than anything, he didn’t want Grantaire to fall asleep behind the wheel. Still, he felt his heart pang at his friend’s offer.

“No, you’re… You’re good,” he just said, instead. “Can we talk, though?”

Grantaire’s response was immediate. “Of course.”

“I left my mom in the waiting room,” Enjolras was wracked with guilt. “She’s so out of it.”

“I’m sorry, Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed, his voice hoarse and barely a murmur. “I can’t imagine.”

Enjolras felt a hot, sticky tear roll down his cheek. He wanted Grantaire to keep talking.

“Have you talked to a doctor yet?” Grantaire asked, softly.

“Uh…,” Enjolras pushed a hand through his hair. “Uh…uh, yeah. Yeah, the doctor said, he… He had another heart attack in the middle of the night, and… He rolled off the bed and that’s where my mom found him. On the floor.” Tears ran down his face now, but he made an effort not to make any audible sobbing noises. He didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry, Enjolras.”

Enjolras put a hand to his mouth, sobbing quietly into it.

“And what about your mom, how is she?”

Enjolras accidentally let a whimper escape from behind his hand, and Grantaire got very quiet.

“You’re so strong,” he said, finally. Enjolras’s eyes fluttered at the sound of this. He thought it was bullshit. “You’re so strong, Enjolras, and I’m not just saying that, it’s true, it’s… You’re… So much stronger than you know.”

Enjolras’s eyes dropped to the ground as if he was avoiding eye contact.

“Thanks,” he sniffled.

“You can do this,” Grantaire said, as heartfelt as possible. “You… I’m sorry. This might not be what you need at the moment, it’s okay.”

“No,” Enjolras said, so quiet he wasn’t sure Grantaire could hear him. “It’s fine, just… Keep talking.”

Grantaire didn’t hang up the phone. Not when the doctor came to tell Enjolras that his father had gone into the emergency room for the second time that night, and not when everyone in the waiting room had eventually been cycled through, and not even when the sun rose on Sunday morning.

He didn’t say goodbye until Enjolras did, when the doctor came into the empty waiting room (spare Enjolras and his mother) for the last time.

 

When they lost Enjolras’s father on Sunday morning, Grantaire and his family arrived at Enjolras’s door with a large bouquet of flowers from their next door neighbor’s garden, and enough pre-prepared meals for two people for a week. Grantaire’s mother and father led Enjolras’s mother into the kitchen where they talked in hushed voices. Eponine gave Enjolras an enveloping hug, before helping her father with necessary tasks around the house.

The last in the door was Grantaire, who stood in front of Enjolras for only a second, before wrapping his arms around his friend’s shoulders. Enjolras’s head was bowed, he couldn’t lift it up no matter how hard he tried, and he laid it on Grantaire’s shoulder, lamely. They were too close, and it was so hot, and as Enjolras felt himself slouch into Grantaire’s touch, he could feel tears burn behind his eyes. He didn’t want to pull away, but he didn’t want to cry.

He led Grantaire out into the backyard, so he wouldn’t have to hear his mother cry, either.

“He was gonna build a treehouse in this tree right here,” Enjolras said, pointing to the willow.

“I know,” Grantaire replied, quietly, “you told me.”

Enjolras just looked at it. “He never will, now, I guess.”

Grantaire had no response.

Enjolras looked over to him. He looked at Grantaire admiring the tree.

“It wouldn’t have made for a very good treehouse,” Enjolras said, because he couldn’t stop himself. “Willow trees aren’t good for that sort of thing.”

Grantaire didn’t say anything. Just looked at the tree.

“An oak tree, maybe. Or a beech tree,” Enjolras just kept going. “Willow trees are the nicest looking, but they don’t have very strong branches. Where would you even put the treehouse if you were going to have one?”

Grantaire’s eyes traced the body of the tree, up to the branches adorned with waterfalls of healthy, green leaves.

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Enjolras mumbled.

“Yes, it would’ve,” Grantaire said, more assuredly than Enjolras had ever heard anything in his life. “It’s the perfect tree for a treehouse.”

Enjolras just looked at him.

He decided that there was no answer more correct than that. Enjolras felt so grateful, so full, so heard that he was almost overflowing. He wanted to release, he wanted to give something back to Grantaire, if only just a fraction of what Grantaire was giving to him. Enjolras wanted to lean over, and kiss Grantaire on the cheek.

A soft, tentative, and light kiss, right underneath his cheekbone.

Instead, Enjolras did nothing.

They stood looking at the tree for longer than Enjolras had ever looked at anything before.

 

In junior year, the entire school went to an assembly where a few military personnel gave a presentation on the importance of youth in the army. They were there with the draft, encouraging kids to sign up for the military after school. It was good for the country, and boasted a discount on colleges. They made it sound glamorous, and failed to mention at all where the kids would be stationed or for how long.

Enjolras tried to keep from scoffing his lungs out in the middle of the auditorium.

“You _what_!?” Bahorel cried, when they all met in the Global Studies classroom during lunch.

Grantaire shrugged. “I just thought it would be interesting.”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows. “Sorry, guys I was…late. What’s going on?”

Bahorel sat, flabbergasted, staring at Grantaire. Everyone else mirrored his expression.

“Grantaire, that’s just…,” Jehan trailed off. “It’s irresponsible.”

“Irresponsible!?” Feuilly practically squeaked. “It’s idiotic!”

“Morally reprehensible!” Added Bossuet. “Unforgivable!”

“It’s so ill-advised, Grantaire, what,” Marius was at a loss, “to what _end_ are you coming?”

“What did I miss?” Asked Enjolras, dreamily.

“Since when are you a bleeding heart patriot?” Eponine spat at her brother. “ _When_ have you shown even the slightest inclination toward joining the army?”

“Right now!” Grantaire practically shot out of his chair. “It’s for the greater good! That’s what you guys are into, right?”

“Where is the greater good in America acting as the Middle East’s policeman?” Joly spluttered.

“Oh, how heroic!” Cosette mocked, at the same time. “Grantaire is worried about the women at home and the men overseas!”

“I-,” Grantaire tried.

“Do you even agree with the morals of the army?” Feuilly interjected.

“One assembly and you’ve packed your bags!” Eponine exclaimed.

“We’ve found the next saint, everyone!” Jehan practically screeched. “Grantaire is gonna die a martyr!”

“For the love of fuck, Grantaire, tell me you’re joking,” Bahorel pleaded.

_“Enough!”_

Enjolras’s voice shook everyone through to their bones.

The entire classroom was silent as they turned to him.

“Grantaire is officially allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants,” Enjolras announced, as authoritatively as possible. “What’s the next item of business?”

 

That night, Grantaire’s mother told him that Enjolras was waiting for him in the backyard.

Grantaire practically tiptoed through the grass until he was standing beside Enjolras, who was staring blankly at the back fence. He took a seat on the ground beside him.

“Hey,” Grantaire said, quietly, already ripping grass up from the ground in anxiety.

“Hi,” Enjolras replied, his tone unreadable. He lay down on the ground, using his hands to pillow his head as he looked up at the stars that were fully in view from Grantaire’s clear backyard. It was already dark out, and the stars were just barely blinking into existence into the sky above. Grantaire listened to Enjolras’s even breathing as they both considered the cool night. 

“So what…,” Grantaire cleared his throat. “What’s your opinion?”

Enjolras continued to study the stars. “Who says I have an opinion?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. He was glad Enjolras was making this as hard as possible. “You’re you. Of course you have an opinion.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “Just because I have an opinion doesn’t necessarily mean I have to share it. You’re free to do what you please.”

“Yeah, you said that,” Grantaire chuckled, mirthlessly.

Enjolras snuggled farther into the earth beneath his back.

“If you don’t care either way, that’s fine,” Grantaire said, trying not to make his tone too biting, but failing. He knew Enjolras cared, so his accusation was unnecessary, but he wanted to hear it said out loud.

Enjolras just hummed. This wasn’t what he wanted.

Grantaire pulled out grass by the handful.

“Montparnasse joined the army, didn’t he?” Enjolras asked, quietly.

Grantaire squinted up at the sky. He grunted in affirmation.

“You two are very different people,” Enjolras said, trying to sound neutral, but betraying just enough that Grantaire got his satisfaction.

“Yeah?” Grantaire asked. “And how’s that?”

“You’re…,” Enjolras was quick to respond, then seemed to take a mental step back. “You’re an artist,” he finally decided to say.

Grantaire half-laughed. “I’m also a boxer.”

Enjolras shot him a look, but wore a crooked smile. “Buddy, if you’re dumb enough to bring a pair of boxing gloves to a gun fight then I’m not letting you make any decision for yourself ever again.”

Grantaire shrugged, but half-laughed again. “I guess,” he offered, but nothing more.

They fell into silence, but that wasn’t what Grantaire wanted. It took him a second more to decide specifically what he needed to hear.

“Okay,” Grantaire murmured. “Okay. If I went, would you…,” he stopped.

Enjolras nudged him slightly with his right elbow.

Grantaire kind of groaned out a laugh. “Okay, whatever. If I went, would you miss me?”

For awhile there was nothing. No sound, not a word.

Then, the tiniest inkling of a feeling. A small tickling, on the back of his neck. Grantaire let his head drop, and his felt the pads of fingertips right behind his ear. Enjolras’s fingers just ghosted through the hair that curled around Grantaire’s ear, so soft it was almost like they weren’t there.

“You must be some kind of idiot,” Enjolras almost whispered, “if you think I wouldn’t miss you like hell.”

 

Prom was the day before graduation. Everyone had been buzzing about it all senior year, and Grantaire’s friend group were not excluded in this. There was talk of an anti-prom as proposed by Courfeyrac, but considering that they were not living out a 1990s teen movie, the idea was prematurely shot down. Instead, Student Council busied themselves with prom preparation, and people were swept into promposals and dress-buying, and all around hysteria.

By a week before prom, the academic aspect of high school had been completely trampled over, and was now just a way to communicate with friends about how to color coordinate the prom outfits of fifteen people, or however many. Grantaire wasn’t as enthusiastic as some of his other, more involved friends, but once he had been asked to prom, he couldn’t deny he had some almost nervous excitement bubbling within him.

 

Enjolras asked him like this:

“You’re not going with anyone right? Yeah, neither am I. If you want, we could just, like, go together and hang out there. I mean, either way that’s how it’s going to happen, so we might as well make it intentional. No, I don’t mean like _actually_ going to prom together just, like. Going together?”

 

Grantaire’s mother straightened his tie for him for the fifteenth time in five minutes.

“Mom, I’m…it’s fine, okay? There’s no reason for this tie to be perfectly in line if it’s just gonna fall back again in two seconds.”

Grantaire’s mother hushed him, and straightened his tie again. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride, honey? I’m totally free to give you a lift to the school, if you need.”

“I’m-,” Grantaire swat his mother’s hands away from his chest. “It’s fine. Enjolras has a car, and he’s offered to drive me there and back, you’re fine.”

Grantaire’s mother crinkled her nose. “How do you figure a boy like Enjolras doesn’t have a date to prom?”

Grantaire kind of grimaced. “I don’t know, ma. How do you figure your charming, handsome son doesn’t have one, either?”

His mother cooed, and shook his chin with her thumb and forefinger. “You know I love you, baby. I’m just curious.”

Grantaire would be lying if he said it didn’t throw him for a loop, too. He knew why _he_ didn’t have a date, a real one anyway, and that was because he couldn’t get one if he tried. But he knew for a fact that Enjolras could get one if he tried, and that he just didn’t. It was as curious a thing as all get out, and it was driving Grantaire almost insane. Almost.

He would also be lying if he said he wasn’t glad that his friend’s attention might just be promised to him all night.

And maybe…

Grantaire had this sneaking feeling right behind his sternum, that even though Enjolras hadn’t really asked him, he hadn’t asked anyone else either. Which maybe meant that he hadn’t wanted to spend this night with anyone else, either. And maybe if it didn’t mean what it seemed like it meant (because Enjolras really _hadn’t_ asked him) it still made Grantaire’s cheeks feel a little warmer when he thought about it.

Grantaire felt like an idiot. An idiot in a fancy, rented suit.

When Grantaire The Idiot opened the door to reveal Enjolras looking unfairly tantalizing in what was basically a fitted tuxedo, Grantaire could feel his traitorous cheeks turn an embarrassing shade of crimson.

“Enjolras, you look…,” Grantaire wasn’t sure why he even started the sentence.

“Like a painting?” Enjolras smirked at him, and Grantaire’s heartbeat did a precious little tap dance in his chest.

Grantaire decided that he was angry at himself in this moment. Not only had he chosen the most unavailable person in the world to pin his affections to, but it also happened to be so unrequited that Grantaire had never felt so unwanted. And he was doing it all to himself. Enjolras, bless his soul, was just being his most charming self, as he always was, to his best friend.

 _His best friend_ , Grantaire thought, and mentally smacked himself twice.

“Um, Grantaire?” Enjolras’s voice came through like a megaphone into his consciousness. “I said you looked nice, too.”

_You look beyond nice,_ thought Grantaire, like a sap,  _you’re…mesmerizing._

It took no small feat on Grantaire’s part not to say this aloud.

“Thanks,” he coughed out, instead.

“Uh,” said Enjolras. “I’ve got a car full of people waiting to get to prom. You ready?”

Grantaire glanced up to see that this much was true. Eponine, Marius, Courfeyrac, Cosette, Combeferre, the whole lot.

“Yes,” he lied, “of course.”

 

Bossuet’s favorite memory from prom was when his girlfriend, Musichetta, spilled the punch she had mixed with wine all across the white table cloth the school had set up in the gymnasium. He found himself laughing so hard he cried while Musichetta grabbed his hand and yanked him away toward the dance floor, faking innocence and ignorance of the entire incident. Bossuet didn’t remember much else from the night, considering Musichetta had a lot more wine where that came from, but fifteen years later he was standing in a coffee shop when he remembered something else.

When Musichetta spilled her drink, Grantaire offered to mop it up with his abhorrent tie that everyone made fun of for the entire night. He had almost gotten it entirely off, when Enjolras appeared as if out of nowhere, and stilled his hand. He said something quietly, and no one caught it except for Bossuet. All he said was, “keep it on. It looks good on you.” Bossuet remembered Grantaire scoffing, and then Musichetta was pulling him away.

But, even so, in all of the pictures that were taken after that moment, Grantaire had the tie securely fastened around his neck so permanently it didn’t look like it was ever going to come off again.

 

That same night, except later, Grantaire was on the blanket that Combeferre had brought, which was spread out on the front lawn of the high school. People who knew about the blanket came and went, coming to relay news of whatever new scandal had arisen in the gymnasium before stumbling back into war with the rest of their peers. After about eleven, Courfeyrac and Grantaire spent most of their night out there, with the half bottle of Jack Daniels Courfeyrac had snuck from his father.

Grantaire felt sick after three and a half shots and just lay on his back looking up at the sky. Courfeyrac had excused himself about five minutes earlier, either saying that he had to go to the bathroom or saying that he had to fight for his kingdom. Truly, either one was equally likely. Grantaire let him have his privacy with either that he picked, and sauntered in and out of gentle sleep.

He only opened his eyes when he felt someone settle in close beside him. He didn’t need to look over to see who it was.

“Hello, my prince,” he slurred, cunningly.

Enjolras gave a short laugh. “Charming,” he responded.

“Oh, sorry,” Grantaire shot him a quick grin. “Hello, my Prince _Charming_.”

Enjolras laughed again, full and loud this time, and hit Grantaire roughly on the bicep with his boney shoulder. He was quiet, for just a moment, and Grantaire in his almost drunken stupor felt like his world was shifting and jolting, like a broken amusement park ride.

The night was cold, cold for June, but the alcohol had warmed him up slightly, and he told himself that the warmth he felt creeping up his skin was due to that and not any extenuating circumstances. He had been kicking himself all night for being a weirdo, and he hoped Enjolras didn’t also think he was being as weird as he felt. He felt like his bones didn’t fit anymore. That he was so rapidly becoming a different person, that everything was ripping a little at the seams.

Enjolras said something, but Grantaire was so thoroughly wrapped up in himself he hardly registered it.

“What was that?” He mumbled.

“I said…you’re my only constant,” Enjolras’s voice shook with embarrassment at his having to repeat himself. He took it as Grantaire’s rejection of his confession, and although he saw how unlikely this was, he couldn’t help but feel a tug at his throat.

“Oh,” Grantaire made a small _tch_ sound. “That’s not true.”

“No…it,” Enjolras swallowed. “It is.”

Grantaire shifted. He didn’t like what this might’ve meant. Whether it meant that Enjolras could tell that Grantaire was changing and was trying to guilt him into stopping, or if he really had such a significant part in Enjolras’s life that if he changed he might disrupt what they had. His mind was swarming.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, again.

Enjolras’s mouth worked in silence. Neither of them looked at each other.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, hurriedly.

“No, it’s…,” Grantaire choked a little. “It’s fine, just… No pressure or anything, right?” He tried to laugh but it was weak and broken.

Enjolras groaned. “Forget it.”

“No, it’s…,” Grantaire began again, and did the same thing.

Now, he looked at Enjolras instead. He saw Enjolras’s profile highlighted by the light of the moon. He looked so picturesque. Grantaire said he didn’t like it when his friend felt bad or ashamed, but that seemed to be when Enjolras looked his best. Contemplative and overthinking, and vulnerable. Grantaire felt a bit like a sadist, but he also felt like he was being drawn toward Enjolras with a magnetic pull so he knew he couldn’t trust his feelings.

And Enjolras looked over at him.

For a long while all they did was look at each other. Grantaire felt that pulling, pulling in his muscles, from behind his eyes.

Everything in his body screamed: _Do it! Kiss him!_

 

The summer that Enjolras had gone to Greece they had stayed in the most ancient little villa that was practically crumbling but was so picturesque that Enjolras imagined it whenever he considered what Heaven could look like. The man who owned the villa and was letting them rent it out, had a husband. Him and his husband would come to dinner sometimes and they’d make stuffed grape leaves for Enjolras and sing in Greek.

Enjolras went out on a rickety, little boat one afternoon with his father to watch the sunset. They sat on the bay, the undulating waves rocking them slowly and naturally, and Enjolras’s young, lean body was entirely tuckered out from a long day of activity. His father didn’t say much as they sat there, waiting. Enjolras felt as though he could keep waiting forever, even though the wood of the boat was uncomfortable on his back.

They didn’t exchange two words to one another the entire time, except for right before the sunset when Enjolras turned to his father and asked, “why does Mister Stavros kiss another man like you kiss Mom?”

Enjolras’s father had just smiled, faintly. “Because it makes him happy.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras. He was quiet for a moment, but then, “and is it okay?”

Enjolras’s father laughed, although Enjolras didn’t understand why.

He never remembered whether or not his father answered the question.

 

In the end, Grantaire didn’t kiss him.

He spent the entire rest of the night wishing he had.

 

On the night of their high school graduation, everyone went out to a party. Everyone except for Enjolras.

Enjolras’s mother had grown extremely sentimental during the graduation, and so he came home with her, instead, calling it an early night. He didn’t want her to return to an empty house, that would be empty of her son, permanently, in two months. He had been accepted to college a half a year earlier, and it was a very bittersweet topic between them. He didn’t want to leave her until he had to, so he pronounced that night he was all hers, and they drove home.

He was in bed by ten o’clock, after having made dinner and had a short conversation about the future, knowing full well he would eventually have to have a long conversation about that and everything else. He got ready for bed and was asleep within the hour.

He woke up to a knocking on his door. Or, at least, he thought it was his door, until he opened his eyes and noticed that something outside was throwing shadows through his window. In fact, the knocking had come from his closed window, the same source as the shadows. He pulled himself out of bed, pushing his hair out of his face, before he slowly peered through the window.

Enjolras was not an easily frightened person, but seeing Grantaire’s face smiling at him through his second story window was not _not_ terrifying.

After a moment all impulse to scream was lost, and instead it was replaced by mild annoyance, and a lot of awe.

He forced the window open. “Grantaire…?” He mumbled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Grantaire did not look one bit sorry at all. He had on his usual shit-eating grin.

“Are you…,” Enjolras hesitated. “Did you climb the tree?”

Grantaire smiled, a big toothy smile right in Enjolras’s face. “Pretty neat, huh?”

Enjolras’s brows furrowed. “I guess,” he muttered.

Grantaire’s face almost cartoonishly fell. Enjolras hadn’t realize how much he had liked the carefree smile until it was gone. He almost felt a preternatural gust of cold air blow over him at the absence of Grantaire’s warmth. But Grantaire was a man on a mission. If he was willing to climb a willow tree, then he would not be distracted long enough for Enjolras to prompt the smile back on to his face.

Not that Enjolras would even know how to go about doing it.

“What if I never see you again?” Was Grantaire’s burning question.

Enjolras forgot that his goal was to get Grantaire to smile, so he rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Grantaire, we’ve got, like, the entire summer to hang out. You’re not thinking.” He paused, and his exhaustion won over. “Go away.”

Grantaire didn’t seem in any rush to obey. If anything, his face looked even more torn. “Don’t…forget me.”

Enjolras squinted at him. “Is that a joke?” He asked, warily.

Grantaire was silent.

Enjolras took a deep breath. “How could I?” He asked, reluctantly. “That would be like forgetting how to spell my name.”

In the dark, Grantaire’s grin was still unmistakable.

“Now, go away,” Enjolras said, shutting the window.

 

In the morning, Grantaire was gone.

Not just gone from the tree, which he was, but gone from the town. Without a word, without a whisper.

Enjolras asked his friends where he had gone off to, but no one knew.

He figured he was stuck in one of those moments where you realize you had imagined a whole event taking place. Enjolras had imagined ever having a best friend.

Enjolras took to the street. He looked for Grantaire’s parents, he asked Grantaire’s neighbors, he went to the boxing studio. He considered taking a train to Nelson-Atkins just to see if Grantaire had maybe buried himself so far into a work of art that he had been locked in overnight.

He asked Grantaire’s dealer, and he said Grantaire hadn’t come to him in months. He asked Fantine, still over at Our Lady of Lourdes, and she had seen nothing either. He asked a cop, an old teacher, the woman who worked at the flower nursery, and a priest. If Enjolras had felt like he was ever going to breathe again, much less laugh, it seemed like the set up to a bad joke.

Finally, he went to the draft officer who had set up an office on the Main Street.

He said that the military had no record of Grantaire ever signing up.

Enjolras almost felt his knees buckle, he was so relieved.

And then, after three days of nothing, there was a light on in Grantaire’s house. When Enjolras furiously pounded on the door, it was only Eponine there, having come home from the beach with a few friends for the summer. When he demanded to see her brother she had laughed at him. Laughed until she realized he was serious.

She told him that Grantaire was going to school in France. A special art institute that gave him practically a full ride and housing situation. The opportunity was too good to pass up, even for Grantaire, who no one ever expected to so much as leave the state. She told him her brother must’ve been too emotionally stunted to actually say goodbye, so he just fell straight off the map.


	2. The Epilogue

 

Enjolras’s mother kept the house on Willow Lane for five years after her son left for college. After that, she put it on the market, and it was sold within the year. The family that moved in after was made up of a mother, father, and two kids. They put a treehouse in the tree in the backyard after about a month of living there.

Grantaire’s family never sold their house. Grantaire’s parents still lived on Peach Street, even after the next door neighbor had died and stopped planting their roses. Grantaire’s family planted them instead. It always smelled like them in the summer.

Grantaire hardly made it down to Eureka, anymore. He used to go once a year in his twenties, but with his thirties came his first daughter, and he would be surprised if he remembered to send a card during the holidays. It wasn’t an active decision, not at all, and he’d return there every month if he thought he could, but it just never seemed possible. But his parents seemed happy, and so long as they were happy, he was, too.

“Oh, my god,” he grumbled, ripping his tie off of his neck for the third time. “I hate this stupid fucking tie.”

“It’s nice, it’s your father’s,” came a calming voice. “Besides, it’s looks so nice on you.”

Grantaire continued grumbling to himself for a moment more. “You always say that, but I really don’t see how. It’s a cursed tie. It’s cursed to look horrible.”

Enjolras grabbed his fumbling hands, and gently set them at his husband’s sides.

“It’s a loving touch, my dear,” he murmured, draping the tie ceremoniously around his neck. He completed the knot and straightened it, and then admired his handiwork in the mirror. “See? It’s all about the touch.”

Grantaire scoffed. “I think it might just like you more than me.”

Enjolras hummed to himself, good-humoredly. “Well, you like me more than you like it, right?”

Grantaire chuckled. “Yeah, but hardly.”

Enjolras laughed, quietly. He looked up at Grantaire through his eyelashes.

Grantaire stepped forward, and hooked his hand around Enjolras’s cheek, laying a sweet kiss to his lips. Enjolras leaned forward, and chased his mouth granting him a longer kiss, as Enjolras bothered with his own tie. Grantaire’s hands tangled themselves in Enjolras’s curls as much as his husband allowed him, which was as much as he desired. He kissed Enjolras even harder just for this.

“Mmm…mmmph,” Enjolras mumbled against his lips. “I’ve gotta get her dressed.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire grunted, not moving his hands from where he had trapped Enjolras’s face.

“What will the residents of Eureka think when your daughter shows up looking like a harlot, all because you wouldn’t let her father help her get dressed?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

Enjolras got almost serious as he withdrew Grantaire’s hands from his hair. “Yeah, well, it matters to me. Grab her diaper bag, will you? I’m gonna try and dress her and get her in the car seat before she can start throwing a fit. And grab the bottle, it’s in the kitchen. The blue one, it’s got an orange top on it.” Enjolras rushed off, like he did whenever he meant business. This left Grantaire alone with a private smile.

Getting the three-person family out of the door was a ridiculous ordeal, and Grantaire somehow managed to forget the blue bottle with the orange top twice. But on the third trip he finally had it, and shoving his husband and daughter out of the front door before him, he allowed himself a quick, grounding breath.

The picture by the front door was crooked, so he took two fingers and straightened it out. He took a moment to admire the picture in it, and let out a breathy chuckle at the image. He then closed the front door behind him, and followed his family down the front walk.

The commotion of the door closing caused the picture to fall crooked again, but no one was there to see.

And so there it hung, the crooked picture.

A picture of Grantaire, dirt-covered but still grinning like a lunatic. Enjolras, rumpled and practically beaming rays of light at Grantaire. And Enjolras’s mother, completely unimpressed by the entire situation, hands on her hips, and glaring at the camera in her husband’s hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!!!! did you enjoy that?? i hope yes
> 
> just some notas:  
> \- title is from van morrison's "cyprus avenue" i think it's a pretty cool song but i little wildly unrelated to this fic i just like the line that's all  
> \- huh there was really another note that i intended to make but  
> \- oh okay i made all of the races and most of the genders kind of ambiguous because i want everyone to imagine it the way they want!!!!! enjolras is blonde sure but that doesn't guarantee anything grow an imagination


End file.
